


brave as a noun

by silenthills



Category: Silent Hill (Video Game Series)
Genre: Depression, F/M, Gen, James being one of my favorite SH characters is my only flaw. /j, Leave ending, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, horror unlocks fake-deep mental illness fanfiction in me unfortunately., it's okay. he's trying., me looking at james: please god go get therapy.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:08:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23485828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silenthills/pseuds/silenthills
Summary: “James?” Laura asks.“Hm?”“Are you going to adopt me?”
Relationships: Frank Sunderland & James Sunderland, Laura & James Sunderland, Mary Shepherd-Sunderland/James Sunderland
Comments: 3
Kudos: 24





	brave as a noun

**Author's Note:**

> title is from a song of the same name by ajj.

“James?”

Laura was fidgeting in the backseat of James’ beat up old Chevy Nova. The sky was darkening, headlights illuminating the road stretching out in front of them.

“Hm?”

“Are you going to adopt me?”

James let out a breath, hands gripping the steering wheel, eyes staring ahead. “I…” His voice was quiet and flat. “I don’t think that’s such a good idea.”

“Huh? Why not?" Laura sounded disbelieving. " _Mary_ was gonna.”

James stiffened, bit back a _well, I'm not Mary_ . Like that'd go over well. Instead, carefully, he said, “I… don’t think they would let me. I’m not exactly f… legal guardian material.”

James’ clothes were still caked in dried blood. Laura hadn’t asked whether it was his or not.

"Am I gonna have to go back to that stupid old orphanage, then?"

"Maybe."

"Well, what was even the point of going with you then, anyway? You're _useless_ !"

"I can visit you. If you want."

"I don't need you. You killed Mary! Why should I listen to _anything_ you say?"

"I don't know," he said evenly. "But you did agree to ride back with me."

"Yeah, 'cus I couldn' find _Eddie_ !" Laura scowled, kicked her feet against the back of James' seat. _Thud. Thud. Thud._ James sighed.

"I'm sorry, Laura."

She curled her lip. "Hmph."

The rest of the car ride was uncomfortably silent.

. . .

When James first got back to Ashfield, he slept in his old house. Tried to settle into what passed for normality. Forced himself to get up, see the sun rise, make breakfast. But everything reminded him of Mary, from the faded, peeling pink floral wallpaper, to the soft, dusty makeup tucked away in a drawer. The rose bushes outside were dying, petals brittle and brown, and his bed felt too big for one person, the empty space on his right side an eternal reminder of what– of _who–_ he had lost. He saw signs of her everywhere he turned, in the cracked mirror above the bathroom sink and the old tea kettle that sat unused on the stovetop. 

Eventually, he gave up, put the house up for sale. Shoved everything he needed into old cardboard boxes, and gave away the rest. Rented an apartment in South Ashfield Heights, tried to settle down. Frank was surprised to see him, asked him what happened, why he had been gone for so long, but James only told him, softly, that he needed to get away after Mary's death, all slumped shoulders and clenched fists, fingernails digging half-moon indents into his palms. Frank didn’t ask again after that.

He didn’t have a job for the first few months after moving in, but later got one as a cashier at a small grocery store nearby, working the night shift, when the store was mostly empty, and the only sound was the fluorescent lights buzzing overhead and his own shallow breaths. 

He’d been losing sleep lately, staying out until late at night at bars to distract himself from his own empty reality. Spiraling back into the person he had been during the worst stages of Mary’s illness. A shell of a human being. Some days, he couldn’t bring himself to get out of bed, feeling heavy and wasted away, like one of the rotting corpses in the Lakeview Hotel, slumped in front of the television, flies buzzing around them. The scent of old blood and decaying flesh cloying at the back of his throat. Dead weight. Those days, he’d call in sick, and stay lying on his back, staring up at the cracks in the ceiling until he could almost hear her voice. 

Even though going to regular therapy appointments to see a grief counselor was helping, he knew he couldn’t explain the real reason he despised the town his wife loved so much, or why he had recurring dreams about Mary’s death. He couldn't speak about the nightmares that made him wake up screaming in the middle of the night, lashing out at anyone who tried to help, or why he had such bad associations with Toluca Lake that he refused to even pass by it while driving to Brahms with Frank for the weekend. He could never talk about how once, after he had broken his leg, he had refused to go to Ashfield’s local hospital, choosing instead to let it heal on its own. Or the time he nearly cut his finger off with a butcher’s knife while chopping vegetables, had to give himself five stitches since no one else was around, and never said anything about it until Frank asked him why there were blood-stained bandages wrapped clumsily around his hand. It was… lonely.

His therapist, after two sessions, offered to put him into contact with a psychiatrist, for a mental health evaluation. At Frank's pushing, he agreed. The diagnosis of derealization disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder and major depression didn't come as much of a surprise, but the medication he was prescribed did. Covered by his father’s insurance, of course - not like he made enough money to have his own. The pills couldn't fix what was wrong with him, really, but they could make it more… manageable. Helped him to function beyond vacant stares and panic attacks, even if he knew he was only holding on to the veneer of normality by the skin of his teeth. Even if he still remembered how Mary’s body looked as it sunk to the bottom of Toluca Lake, the tremble in Angela's voice as she ascended the burning stairs, Eddie's dead eyes and the blood staining his blanched pale skin. Even if he still blamed himself for every one.

But still. He was getting better.

He had to believe that.

. . .


End file.
